a poem in my pocket

daddy’s hands would hold mine when i was afraid,

fix my bike chain when it was loosened,

fold together in mealtime prayers, or

show me how to move chess pieces

---

yes, i have my father’s eyes

bluish-green or greenish blue

framed by long lashes and able

to see another’s point of view

---

as a teenager, i’d protest:

“papa, don’t preach!” but

that didn’t slow his sermons on

following everybody off a cliff

---

daddy could swear, i declare,

he swore in dutch at car engine

when i asked what those words meant

he commanded, “go to the house!”

---

no one could tease or make

me laugh as much as dad did;

every grin and guffaw conveyed

message, “your daddy loves you!”

---

A father poem, including song titles, linked to dVerse poets pub.

throughout the day

before my dad died,

i held my father’s hand;

once strong, fleshy

now feeble, bony

but still warm…

and still gripping

(though not for long).

as i left his room that night

with an “i love you”,

he raised his hand up

towards me in a

slow, deliberate wave.